


Smoke Alarms, Tea Towels and Guns

by prettybirdy979



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's smoke in the flat, Sherlock is sulking and there's a suicide that might be murder. All in all, John isn't sure if it's a good day.</p><p>It's about to get worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Alarms, Tea Towels and Guns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



> Happy (early) Birthday Pip! Sorry I didn't wait until tomorrow to upload but I'm impatient. (Also not waiting until your actual birthday date to upload =P)

The windows were open when John walked into the flat.  
  
He paused on the threshold and sighed. Sherlock hated having the windows opened, claimed it let all of the stupidity outside in. He only opened them if there was a serious reason to do so, mostly an experiment or dinner producing unexpected smoke. Not that the man cooked, but there were times John got more wrapped up in his flatmate’s cases than watching dinner. Smoke happened, it was a part of life at Baker Street.  
  
John examined the living room. There seemed to be no noticeable damage, just the ordinary level of chaos and pyjama clad sulking flatmate on the sofa- oh hang on that was Sherlock’s thinking position so not sulking but thinking. So the fire must have been in the kitchen and why was there a tea towel on the smoke detector? John blinked at the grey towel hanging off the wall then turned to look at his flatmate who was lying on the sofa.  
  
“Why is there a tea-towel on the smoke alarm?”  
  
“It was being loud and noisy. I put it in time out.” Sherlock replied in a monotone.  
  
John clenched his fists to calm himself down, bit his lip and only once he was sure there was going to be no yelling did he reply. “You put the smoke alarm in time out. For doing its job?”  
  
“Yes. It was being far too loud about it. And smug.”  
  
John rolled his eyes then stormed over to Sherlock. He forced the man’s eyes open. “Nope, not drugged.”  
  
“John!” Sherlock spluttered as John took a step back and he sat up.  
  
“That’s about the only way that sentence could make sense. And that is not permission to get yourself drugged.” Sherlock glared at John.  
  
“It was telling me the flat was full of smoke, something I had already figured out.” He finally admitted. “So I put it in time out.”  
  
“And why was the flat full of smoke?”  
  
Sherlock nodded at the dining table. “Dinner.” Sure enough, there was a pair of plates on the table each holding a slightly charred grilled steak. John smiled at the gesture. After an eight hour shift preceded by the all nighter Sherlock’s last case had required it was nice to not have to cook dinner.  
  
“Oh. Thank yo-” John started to say when the doorbell rang. Both man looked downstairs then back at another.  
  
“Client.” They said together. John moved to put the food in the fridge while Sherlock went to get changed.  
  
********  
  
The man that made his way into their living room was broken.  
  
He wasn’t the first client to come in like that. Sherlock was often the last desperate measure of people with no other options. They rarely charge for their work for that reason- John because he cannot morally justify taking from those who have already lost so much and Sherlock because he enjoys the puzzle they present and sees no need to take from them after they gifted him with a day or so without boredom. Sherlock often charges triple on boring cases of those who can afford it as punishment. Or John does- in this they are synonymous.  
  
Their client’s name was Arthur Presbury, a tall, poorly dressed and unemployed software developer with three kids whose wife committed suicide a week ago. Only...  
  
“I know she didn’t do it. She couldn’t have done it.” Arthur was sitting in their usual interview chair and Sherlock was sitting across from him in his own chair while John was balancing on the arm rest. Arthur had started to cry silently as he recounted the details of his wife’s death.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. John elbowed him even as he stood up to go to Arthur. “You have to understand, sometimes those closest just can’-”  
  
“No! My wife loved me and our kids! She loved life, loved her job and coming home to...me.” Arthur choked on a tear. “She wouldn’t do this.”  
  
“Boring.” Sherlock declared. “Your wife was cracking under the pressure of being the sole provider for your family. She took her life so you could have her life insurance. Dull.” He stood, turning to go to his room.  
  
“My wife does-didn’t have life insurance. We never got around to it.” Arthur said.  
  
Sherlock paused. “You’re worse off with her dead?”  
  
Arthur sobbed again. “I have three children under ten and no income. Yes.”  
  
Sherlock turned back. “Interesting. I’ll need your permission to see her files, possibly to exh-”  
  
“Anything.” Arthur cut in. “Anything.” He repeated. “Just, find out what happened. Please.”  
  
Sherlock nodded but it was John who spoke. “We’ll do everything in our power.”  
  
********  
  
“I need your files on the Presbury suicide.” Sherlock demanded as he and John entered Molly’s morgue. She jumped and turned to face them with wide eyes.  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “The files. On Tracey Presbury. You performed the autopsy and ruled it a suicide, quite incorrectly but with the evidence the police provided you with I’m not surprised. Her husband has requested I review the case. So, the files?”  
  
Molly blinked. “This way. Are you sure it wasn’t-” She stopped talking as Sherlock glared at her. “Right, this way.” John noticed how she was biting her lip, most likely beating herself up for the mistake.  
  
“Sherlock.” John gently reprimanded as they followed her to the office. Sherlock refused to meet John’s eyes. “Sherlock.” John repeated, a touch of steel in his voice.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Molly held the door open for them, her head still bowed. Sherlock stopped in the doorway. “I doubt I would have ruled it a murder with the evidence the police most likely provided.” He said in one breath then stalked into the room.  
  
Molly looked at John in disbelief. “Take that as an “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings”, it’s the closest you’ll get.” John said with a smile and followed him in.  
  
********  
  
“John, read this and tell me what you think.” Sherlock said after a half hour, passing over an autopsy report.  
  
John quickly scanned it. “Looks just like a suicide. Gunshot to the right side of the head, combined with a note left by the body-just like Mr Presbury said.”  
  
“And?” Sherlock said, staring intensely at John with his hands under his chin and legs drawn up onto the office seat.  
  
John raised an eyebrow and read the report again. “Everythin- Oh. Oh. Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock grinned. “Exactly as our client described. But this isn’t his wife’s report. It’s the report from Rodger Presbury. A criminal who committed suicide three weeks ago and isn’t related to Tracey despite the last names!”  
  
John met his eyes. “A serial killer.” They said together.  
  
********  
  
“A serial killer! It’s two suicides!” Lestrade said after Sherlock had laid out his findings on his desk. Lestrade’s lunch was pushed to the side from when the pair had walked in and interrupted him and he kept eyeing it.  
  
“Oh, just eat it Lestrade. You’re not going to focus if you don’t.” Sherlock snapped. “I need access to the police reports on both to prove it but look at these reports! They’re identical! Obviously something to do the same last name, so I’ll have a look over cases like-”  
  
Lestrade held up a hand. “Enough Sherlock. I’ll go get you all cases with a victim named Presbury. Will that make you happy?”  
  
“Moderately.”  
  
********  
  
Sherlock threw the files across the room in disgust. John looked up from his own pile and sighed. They had been given an empty office to work in. While Lestrade was happy to provide Sherlock with all the files he could dump on the man, he was less than inclined to let Sherlock take them back to Baker Street. The man already had far too many police files as it was. John was partly grateful to not be going back to Baker Street and the temptation of his nice warm bed.  
  
“No luck?”  
  
“Obviously! It doesn’t make sense! Why are there only two victims? He’s clearly been at this for years, the crime scenes were not that of an inexperienced murderer.” Sherlock grabbed at Tracey's file. “Look at this. No other fingerprints found. No signs of forced entry or of any entry at all. There’s gun powder on her hands and the gun was right beside her. An illegal weapon, probably brought on the black market.”  
  
“Must have cost a fortune too.” John commented, looking over the photos of the gun.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John. You’re a genius! She couldn’t have afforded the gun, not on her budget. So our murderer is either very wealthy or has connections that allow him to afford to lose a gun every time he kills someone.”  
  
John looked at the photo of the gun again. “What happens to guns once a death is ruled a suicide? I can’t see the police keeping them.”  
  
“John!” Sherlock lept to his feet. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”  
  
********  
  
“You have a murderer in your ranks Lestrade.” Sherlock said, strolling into Lestrade’s team meeting.  
  
“Sherlock! You can’t say things like tha-” Lestrade said, rising from his seat while Donovan gaped at Sherlock.  
  
“Not in this room.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Within Scotland Yard. An accomplice at best. I need you to check the evidence locker for the guns from these cases.” Sherlock threw the Presbury files on the table, which caused the photos inside to spill onto the table. “They’ll most likely be missing or already have been destroyed despite being in the mandatory keeping period or what it is you have because you’re idiots who can’t tell if something is murder or suicide.”  
  
It was Lestrade’s turn to gape at Sherlock. Donovan got over her shock enough to push the photos back into the files.  
  
“Stop!” Sherlock cried, grabbing at two photos. He ran his eyes over them, before handing them to John. “Look at these.”  
  
John looked down. “Two pictures of a gun? Sherlock what am I looking for?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes were bright. “Those are from different files.”  
  
John looked again. “The gun has been rebarreled. But it’s the...same gun. Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Your murderer has been using the same gun, stolen from your evidence locker. Who is in charge of it?”  
  
“Nathan Garrideb.”  
  
********  
  
Nathan Garrideb was an elderly police officer, clearly a year or so from retirement. He was incredibly focused on studying the item on his desk- some form of antique from a case- that he didn’t notice Sherlock looming over him.  
  
Sherlock had to cough to get the man’s attention. John had to suppress a giggle.  
  
“Can I help you, Mr-”  
  
“Holmes. Yes. You can tell me how a single gun has been taken under your supervision at least four times.”  
  
Garrideb’s jaw dropped. “What?”  
  
Sherlock held the photos of the gun in front of the man. “This gun! Used in at least two murders.”  
  
The man went white. “What?”  
  
“Don’t repeat yourself.” Sherlock growled. “Do you know this gun?”  
  
Garrideb shook his head, mouth moving but no words coming out as he considered the photos again. Sherlock was about to yell at him again when John grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back a step.  
  
“Sherlock, he’s in shock. You’re not getting anything else from him.”  
  
Sherlock surveyed Garrideb. He knew that the only way to figure out when the gun was taken was by talking to this man but John was right... “Fine. Lestrade, talk to him. Come on John, we have a murder to prevent.”  
  
********  
  
“Okay, explain. What murder?” John asked as they headed back to Lestrade’s office.  
  
“Obvious John. No one stops at two, serial killers have a fondness for three or more bodies. Power rush.”  
  
“Right. Of course. Silly me to forget.” John stopped just outside the office.  
  
Sherlock eyed him nervously. “You’re mad? Why are you mad?” John yawned and it clicked for Sherlock. “Oh not mad. Tired.” Sherlock looked between the files in the office and John. “We can afford to go home... I won’t be able to identify cases until Garrideb calms down and I can talk to him.”  
  
John smiled. “It’s fine Sherlock. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Lestrade came up behind them, carrying two sheets of paper. “You alright John?”  
  
“Fine. What’s that?”  
  
“List of Garrideb’s shifts for the last five years and the dates the computer reckons he was here. Thought you might want to-” Sherlock snatched the lists off him. “compare them. Okay.”  
  
“John, go home. Get some sleep. I’ll text when I’ve got something.” Sherlock said absentmindedly, his attention on the paper.  
  
With a small smile, John left.  
  
********  
  
“These are the dates.” Sherlock said after an hour, grabbing a pen from Lestrade and circling eight dates. “Last two were obviously when the gun for the last two murders was taken.”  
  
“And the rest?” Lestrade said in horror.  
  
Sherlock grinned. “Our serial killer. We need a list of suicides within a week of those dates.”  
  
“Text John?” Lestrade asked, even as he reached for his computer to access the files.  
  
Sherlock glanced at his phone. “No. Let him sleep.”  
  
*********  
  
An hour later and they had had no luck.  
  
“No Presbury’s comm-” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, Lestrade corrects himself, “murdered in the last five years.”  
  
“And then two in two weeks, that’s not suspicious at all.” Sherlock drawled. “Nothing. What am I missing?”  
  
“No idea.” Lestrade admitted, clicking out of his screen. “The Hamilton’s had a bad run this year though. Three in six months.”  
  
“Three?” Sherlock said, ditching the Yard laptop Lestrade had found for him and pushing Lestrade out of his seat. He pulled the screen back up.  
  
“You don’t think-”  
  
“He swaps names. Three at a time, same gun but different barrel. I bet he didn’t swap the firing pin though.” Sherlock cried with glee. “He’s made a mistake!”  
  
Lestrade blinked. “He has?”  
  
“Yes! You still have the ballistics from the Presbury “suicides”, run them through your system again with focus on the back of the bullet. Should give us a start.” Sherlock pulled his phone out.  
  
 _Serial killer, at least eight victims! Wake up John, the Game is on. SH_  
  
********  
  
It takes Scotland Yard three hours to rerun the ballistic tests and identify eleven possible matches.  
  
It takes Sherlock two to identify eight of those, simply by matching the dates of Garrideb’s suspicious access with groups of three suicides of the same last name then accessing those files and manually comparing the ballistic reports. He missed the last three as they predate the installation of the Yard’s access computers. By the time Lestrade arrived with their list, Sherlock has already set up a map of all locations involved and is trying to figure out the pattern.  
  
John had not shown up yet.  
  
It’s the first thing Lestrade noticed. “Where’s John?”  
  
Sherlock frowned, both at the breaking of his focus and John’s absence. “With you.”  
  
“No he’s not. He’s not in the building. I’m always notified if one of you show up.” Lestrade added the three extra files to the pile already on the table. “I think I’m considered to be your handler.”  
  
“You are our handler.” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone. “No reply.”  
  
“Oh and Garrideb has started talking. Denies everything of cours-”  
  
“Take me to him.”  
  
********  
  
Sherlock stared at Nathan Garrideb from his seat across the table. The man began to fidget under the intense glare.  
  
He finally snapped. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”  
  
“No, just allowed a murderer to access their murder weapon eleven times.” Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone.  
  
Garrideb took a deep breath. “I did nothing of the sort. John said I don’t have to say anything to you, I’ve the right to remain silen-”  
  
“Who is John?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.  
  
“My tenant. John Garrideb. Such a coincidence to find a young man with my name! And not related to me at all.”  
  
“Liar.” Sherlock declared. “You think he is related. An illegitimate nephew perhaps?” Garrideb refused to meet his eyes.  
  
“My brother is dead. I don’t mind a bit of company and if it might be family, what’s the harm?”  
  
“When did you call him?” Sherlock asked, suspicious dawning in his mind.  
  
“About three hours ago. Why?”  
  
“Do you have a photo?” Sherlock stood, moving across the room to stand beside Garrideb.  
  
“Well, he’s so camera shy-”  
  
“Do you have a photo?” Sherlock roared and Garrideb meekly fished his wallet out and showed Sherlock a recently taken photo of a short, round faced man with intense blue eyes. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that gave him the appearance of a young man rather than the forty Sherlock estimated him to be.  
  
“John Garrideb?” Lestrade asked, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at the photo.  
  
“John Winters.” Sherlock said with a smile.  
  
********  
  
“Where are we going Sherlock?” Lestrade demanded two minutes later as Sherlock dragged him out of Scotland Yard. Donovan watched them go past and Lestrade gestured for her to follow.  
  
“Baker Street to pick up John, then to see Mr Winters.”  
  
“Garrideb-”  
  
“No, Winters.” Sherlock snapped. “A few years back I worked a case with the Florida PD, a trio of murders that the killer tried to pass off as suicides. All with the same last name. I determined the murderer was a John Winters, but he fled the country before the Florida police were able to arrest him.” He began to look for a taxi but Lestrade sighed and grabbed Sherlock towards the police car Donovan was driving.  
  
“And you didn’t help track him down?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock glared at the car.  
  
“Not my problem. Besides it was politics and that’s no puzzle. But now he has convinced your “officer” he’s related to him and is using Garrideb’s access to continue killing.” He said, looking back over his shoulder to the main street.  
  
“Into the car Sherlock.” Lestrade said, holding open the back door. Sherlock seemed to consider it then, with the air of one doing a massive favour, hopped into the car.  
  
*********  
  
Donovan parked the car right outside 221 Baker street, upsetting a cab about to pull into that position. She flashed her badge at him as he pulled alongside, swearing. With a squeal of brakes he took off. She took a deep breath to calm herself down.  
  
Sherlock saw none of this, having sprung from the car as soon as it was going slow enough to do so. Lestrade swore at him and took off as soon as the car was stopped. Sherlock had to fish for his keys at the door, which gave Lestrade a chance to catch up.  
  
“Sherlock, are you worried?” He asked as the man opened the door.  
  
“Course not. Though I plan to make sure John cannot ignore his phone in the future.” Sherlock barged through the door and raced up the stairs, Lestrade and the still fuming Donovan on his heels.  
  
He stopped dead halfway up the stairs. The door into the flat was ajar.  
  
“Sherlock? Sherlock!” Sherlock all but jumped the rest of the steps, freezing as he entered his flat.  
  
“God Sherlock, you really need to clean this place up.” Lestrade commented as he came up behind Sherlock.  
  
The flat resembled a disaster zone, papers thrown all over the place and coffee table overturned. The pillows from the sofa were on the floor and had been ripped opened. Lestrade was sure the kitchen would be in a similar state, judging by the fact the kettle was in pieces in the tv. Which was also broken and surely Sherlock hadn’t been this bored and was that blood on the floor-  
  
“John.” Sherlock said in a near whisper and sprinted for the upstairs bedroom.  
  
“No, Sherlock!” Lestrade tried to grab the detective but he was too fast for him, making it to the stairs in a moment. “Sally, check on Mrs Hudson!” He called as he followed.  
  
Sherlock was frozen in the doorway of John’s room. It was in a similar state to downstairs, John’s duvet in a pile by the window, his gun poking out of a pillow by the wardrobe and bedside cupboard lying on its side by a smashed lamp.  
  
There was also a huge patch of blood on the white bed sheets.  
  
“He was shot in his bed.” Sherlock said in the same whisper as he had used downstairs. “Must have been a graze as he had the strength to fight back as Winter tried to kidnap him.”  
  
“The kettle?”  
  
“He must have gotten into the kitchen for a moment. His throw was off due to his injury.” Sherlock took a shuddering breath.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
Sherlock turned on Lestrade. “Am I alright?” He roared. “I’m fine, but John is not because your department allowed a suspect to make a phone call!”  
  
Lestrade looked back calmly. “Yelling at me won’t help.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “I am aware.”  
  
“Then why are you doing it?”  
  
For a moment, Sherlock looked lost. “Because...No matter. Come on.” He turned his back on his friend’s bed and headed down the stairs.  
  
Donovan was standing in the middle of the living room when he came downstairs. “John not coming?” She asked.    
  
“He’s been taken.” Sherlock said in a monotone. Donovan flinched.  
  
“By Winter?”  
  
“Of course. It doesn’t make sense! Serial killers don’t like to break their patterns.”  
  
Donovan looked incredulous. “Not even to try to avoid arrest? Yeah, sociopath.”  
  
“It doesn’t make sense!” Sherlock said, his voice taking on life. “Taking John serves no purpose! He’s not valuable to the police, not in terms of solving the crime. Taking him is in no way going to prevent us finding Winter. It’s an idiotic move from a clever killer.”  
  
Donovan looked shell shocked. Sherlock moved into the doorway, then paused. “And he had better hope I’m not the one to find him.”  
  
With that, Sherlock stormed from the room. Both police officers exchanged a look of complete fear before trailing in his wake.  
  
*********  
  
John was sure he was screaming. Or was his throat too sore to do that anymore?  
  
Logically he knew that he had experienced worse pain when he was shot. But that had been a major injury that had knocked him out in minutes. These were a series of small ones that just hurt and hurt and hurt.  
  
His abductor was a good shot. John had awoken tied to a pipe in some basement or cellar when a gunshot had passed by the left side of his face. His abductor hadn’t spoken, just fired random shots whenever John had moved. Or breathed.  
  
But he must have gotten bored as he was now pointing a gun at John’s head.  
  
“No offence Mr Watson. But I don’t like being trapped. And you do make a good message for your detective.” John closed his eyes, not wanting to see the shot that killed him.  
  
There was a crash, and a cry then someone’s hand on his face. John opened his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.  
  
John smiled and tried to reach for him, before he remembered he was restrained. Sherlock growled and reached for his pocket knife to untie him.  
  
A groan sounded from behind Sherlock. “You will not leave this room alive.” Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone.  
  
“Sherlock.” John said softly, reaching his recently freed left hand for Sherlock’s cheek. “No. Please no.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes gentled even as the sound of breaking doors and cry of police came from above. “Down here Lestrade!” He called, lowering John to the ground.  
  
“Sherlock, tell me-oh thank God.” Lestrade said as he poked his head into the cellar and saw the unconscious but alive Winter.  
  
“John is not God, but he will appreciate the thanks.” Sherlock said, moving so he was kneeling by John’s side. “You didn’t answer me.” He said to him accusingly, ignoring the police now entering the room. He placed his hand beneath John’s left cheek so his head was being half cradled in Sherlock’s hand.  
  
John smiled weakly. “Was a bit tied up. You found me though. You always do.” He shifted his position in Sherlock’s hand so he could reach it with his lips. He kissed Sherlock’s hand lightly and then met his friend’s stare, devotion shining in his eyes.  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock said, looking at John like he was the answer to boredom forever and a locked room murder and everything amazing. “Oh.” He repeated, then lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss to John’s lips. And John couldn’t help but think, _everything that happened is worth it if it means I can have this._  
  
Behind him Sherlock could hear cries of dismay and surprise from the Scotland Yarders. “I think you broke them.” John commented as Sherlock broke their kiss but kept his head where it was.  
  
“It’s not like that takes much.” Sherlock replied. “You need to go to hospital.”  
  
“Yes.” John said with a sigh.  
  
Sherlock kissed him again then lifted his head. “If you don’t go now, I’ll not let you out of my sight.”  
  
“You’re going to let me out of your sight?” John sounded terrified as the paramedics brushed past Sherlock.  
  
“Never.”  
  
“Bit not good.” John whispered as one paramedic began to work to stabilise him. “I like not good.”  
  
“I know. I love you too.” Sherlock replied and John grinned.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Smoke Alarms, Tea Towels and Guns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077838) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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